


The Turing Test

by governmentgoldfish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AI, AU, Android, Artificial Intelligence, M/M, Robot, WIP, greg is designed to appreciate aesthetic, mycroft might as well be aesthetic in human form, shameless red dwarf reference right off the bat b/c why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:32:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3249809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/governmentgoldfish/pseuds/governmentgoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is the worlds first fully comprehensive Artificial Intelligence. Not that anyone would know, given that he acts completely human and no one even knew his creator had the abiltiy to invent a working AI. For years he’s lived a perfectly normal(ish) life, and then one day Sherlock Holmes’ brother walks very nearly onto a crime scene, and Greg finds himself acting slightly less human than he should be, because he was designed to appreciate aesthetic, and Mycroft Holmes looks like he’s been dipped in the liquid form of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lights on, kettle on, television on. Nothing needed in practicality, but all things that have become habit. He doesn’t need lights. He doesn’t drink tea or coffee unless he has to. He rarely watches television anymore. But this is what he does now, every time he returns home from work; home to his box of a flat.

Sighing; also unneeded, but something he does. There are few ways for him to express what feelings he may have, and sighing seems to be the best way so far. Not that there’s anyone to hear his sigh as he slowly sits on the battered old sofa opposite the television. He stares at the screen blankly, chest rising and falling as artificial breaths leave him. _Red Dwarf_ is on. Within a moment of him realising this he settles down further; almost sinking into the cushions as he watches. It has been a long while since he’s watched it.

He likes it.

He likes Kryten.

Kryten is like him.

Almost three hours pass, and he doesn’t move; he doesn’t react to the kettle clicking off, doesn’t get up to make tea or coffee. Doesn’t do anything but watch as episode after episode plays. It’s only when the last episode ends that he gets up, turns off the television, turns off the lights and pads into the bedroom. It’s small, just like the rest of the flat; just a set of drawers and bed. But he doesn’t mind. He strips off, folds the clothes he’s been wearing, and lays down in the bed, one arm crooked at the elbow so his fingers brush against the plug socket beside him.

His electricity bill spikes over the next few hours as he sleeps, rests, recharges, and gets ready for the next day. Or, more accurately; later that day. It’s near one am when he’s actually in bed, and he’s up again by four. He doesn’t need time to wake up, wash or eat. He isn’t expected at work until six thirty, so usually he doesn’t wake until an hour or so before that; giving him time to change, get on the tube, buy a coffee that he probably wont drink, and get to work.

But yesterday was a long day, and he wants to run.

His feet hit the tarmac hard as soon as he’s out of the building. Left, right, left, right, left- arms swinging in precise movements as he runs around his usual track; through side roads, alley ways, and other more-secluded spots.

By the time his run is done he’s only just got time to change, grab his stuff and jog over to the tube station.

Hopefully work will be more enjoyable today. No dead bodies. No murders. Maybe a little bit of paperwork.

Hopefully.

But hope doesn’t really get anyone anywhere, does it? He drags a hand down his face as he reminds himself of this, hours later.

“Honestly, Graham, don’t you ever _listen_?”

He grits his teeth, lets out a harsh breath, and looks towards the crouching Consulting Detective.

“It’s _Greg_ \--.” He informs him for whats perhaps the millionth time. How many ‘G’ names will Sherlock have to get through before he get’s it right? For a genius, he’s _painfully_ stupid sometimes. Greg keeps that thought within himself and tries to ignore how annoying Sherlock’s dismissive grunt is. Instead he just looks towards John, sighs, and runs a hand through his hair.

“And yes, actually,” Hoping for a good day with no murders and just a little paperwork did nothing, apparently, so he has to deal with Sherlock. Again. “I do. Will you just tell me what you’ve got, please?”

He’s fed up of standing around in the chilling mid-january air, staring at the back of one of the most annoying men alive - no matter how clever he is - and trying not to snap back at his rather snide comments.

Sherlock stands, turns on his heel and opens his mouth ready to talk. And then he freezes, frowns, and looks passed him; over his shoulder. Without another word he’s storming off, and Greg has to hold in the frustrated growl of a noise that he wants to let out. Instead he just turns to look for the reason Sherlock had just stalked off. The reason, apparently, is a tall, ginger-haired man stood just beyond the yellow police tape, and leaning on a rather exquisite umbrella. He looks at John for an explanation, and all he gets is a roll of the eyes and a tiny shake of the head.

Well, that’s just not going to do. Ignoring John’s protests, he walks over, just in time to hear Sherlock say something about a diet. He doesn’t question it.

“Excuse me-” He cuts in on the conversation as soon as there’s a break in Sherlock’s speech and look at the new man, offering him a hand to shake automatically. As he does so, he looks at the man and his gaze flickers over his eyes, lips, hair; everything noticeable about him. There’s quite a lot of things, he realises.

“DI Lestrade. We’re sort of in the middle of something, if you and Sherlock could keep this little-” He glances at Sherlock, takes in his expression, and turns back to the other, “-Domestic for later, I’d appreciate it.”

Apparently that was both the right choice of words and the wrong choice. The lips of the ginger-man before him quirk up just a tad, before his expression returns to neutral, and Greg can tell by that that ‘domestic’ was a good way to describe it. Sherlock’s indignant huff of breath makes him think ‘domestic’ was a terrible choice of word. All in all, he’s not really sure what to think.

“Of course, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” The man makes no move to shake his hand, and so Greg lets it drop back down to his side, still watching him. “Apologies. I intended to do so anyway; once Sherlock was finished. But, as I’m sure you know, my brother isn’t exactly one for patience.”

His slight shock at the realisation that there’s _another_ Holmes must show, because once again his lip quirks. Though this time it stays just a little longer; long enough for Greg to wrap his head around the fact that he is staring openly at Sherlock’s brother. And he’s _Sherlock’s brother_.

He introduces himself as ‘Mycroft Holmes’; Sherlock’s elder sibling, and once again apologises for interrupting the investigation. His dismissal of Sherlock (“Do get back to work, brother dear. You wouldn’t want to keep DI Lestrade waiting now, would you? And you do so _love_ corpses”) very nearly pulls a laugh from Greg; mostly just the look on the younger Holmes’ face.

He watches Sherlock storm back to the body, and after thanking Mr Holmes for his patience, walks over as well to listen to Sherlock rattle off information about the corpse at their feet. In all honesty, he’s only listening enough to jot down the information he needs. He’s watching Mycroft out of the corner of his eye; watching him continue to stare in their direction. 

Greg has always been one to appreciate aesthetic; he’s literally designed to. And as far as he could tell from the few moments they’d been near each other, Mycroft Holmes was pleasing to the eye. The only thing that stops him from turning around and staring at him openly is the mental reminder that that’s not exactly socially acceptable, and the sound of Sherlock still talking.

Greg’s still thinking about the lightly freckled features of the elder Holmes and the way his fingers curled around the handle of his umbrella when he’s sat at his desk doing the paperwork for the day. Yet again, he’s only concentrating enough to get the job done. He’s not even looking _at_ what he’s writing; instead he’s staring at an ink smudge near the top of the paper, and letting his hand and do all the work.

It’s only when Sally walks in that he starts out of this trance-like state and realises that he’s been sat in his chair for two hours straight and has hardly thought about anything but Mycroft Holmes and the small quirk of his lips when Greg had said ‘domestic’. Immediately he mentally berates himself for being distracted, listens to what Sally says, answers her, and then continues with writing; actually paying attention now.

He wonders why it’s now that he finds someone interesting enough, aesthetically, to hold his gaze and capture his thoughts. He’s existed for years, and only now has the appropriate artificial chemical reactions within him made him interested in someone.

Interested in a _Holmes_.

After the paper work is done he has time to kill, so he walks home; eyes trained on the pavement as he thinks and works through his thoughts, and considers running the rest of the way home. Those thoughts are cut short by the ring of his phone. A sigh leaves his lips, and there’s a moment of hoping it’s not work before he pulls the mobile out of his pocket.

**_Unknown Caller_ **

With another frown and a sigh he answers and puts the phone to his ear. In all honesty, he’s not expecting the clip tones of Mycroft Holmes to be what he hears, but it is. There’s a near-order to get in the car - he doesn’t know what car until he turns around and there’s a black limo pulling up beside him - and he doesn’t get to reply before he’s hung up on.

Ignoring the car doesn’t slip into his mind for even a minute. The door opens as he steps towards it and he slips in, immediately finding himself face-to-face with the softly smiling brother of a Consulting Detective. When Sherlock figures out a particularly tricky case he smiles in a way that’s only mildly terrifying. Mycroft’s smile is like that, though less wide, and slightly more terrifying. Greg just blinks at him for a moment, before clearing his throat to dispel the silence.

“I wanted to apologise for earlier.” The man opposite him says, and it’s rather like Greg is entranced. He stares at Mycroft, his gaze flicking over his facial features, before resting on his lips as he continues to talk; continues with the apologies and explanation for why he’d been there. Greg knows he doesn’t have to apologise and he gets the feeling that this man rarely does. There’s a pause in his speech and Greg takes that moment to look back into his eyes and respond when needed. For the third time that day he’s hardly paying attention to what’s happening.

Mycroft must notice something, because he’s quirking a brow and asking if he’s alright. It takes him a moment to realise that he hasn’t blinked once, the entire time Mycroft has been talking. He curses himself, blinks a few times and nods. Soon enough Mycroft is asking him if he’d like a lift the rest of the way home, and Greg agrees without considering it, because that means he gets to look at Mycroft more. 

And this is honestly the first time he’s _wanted_ to actively look at someone.

It’s a strange thought, really, and one that circles and circuits his mind the whole ride home and far into the night. Only when he’s laid in bed, fingers brushing against the socket beside him, that he finally stops thinking about Mycroft Holmes. But that’s only really because he’s resting.

In all honesty, he doesn’t _need_ to recharge right now; the day hadn’t been too taxing, but he likes waking up in the morning and feeling as though he’s actually alive. And usually that feeling continues through the whole day if he’s charged over night. Plus, with the need to not eat or drink unless he’s in public and he must for appearances’ sake, he can let his electricity bill climb up and up, even when he doesn’t need it to.

He doesn’t dream. He never dreams. He doesn’t shift in his sleep, or breath, or show any sign of being _alive_ , as an actual human would when they’re sleeping. It took him months to train himself to blink and ‘breath’ automatically, so as to not draw attention to himself when he entered the ‘real world’. Luckily he’d got that and nourishment under control _before_ he met Sherlock. It would have been a disaster otherwise. No one but himself knows what he is, and he spends a lot of time forcibly _not_ thinking about what Sherlock might like to do with him if he ever found out that he wasn’t human.

He wakes up with a start because there’s a power cut and he knows he’s tripped the system. Thinking too much, without an outlet, before attaching himself to a source of power is never a good idea; despite not actively thinking, and technically being ‘off’ at that moment, the complex circuiting that is his mind keeps running, and running. And without him _actually_ running to help it clear, theres always a chance that he’ll trip whatever system he’s connected to and shut the whole thing down.

Luckily its two thirty seven am and it’ll be back up again soon. Hopefully not too many people will realise. But now he’s awake and as much as he’d like to lay back down and turn off he can’t, and so he does what he should have done instead of accepting Mycroft’s lift home; run. 

No one in their right mind will be out this early, unless they’re drunk, so Greg runs like no one is watching. And he’s sure no one is. He doesn’t run too fast, but he goes at a fairly brisk pace and doesn’t care for making his breathing react appropriately; doesn’t even stop to breathe until it’s one minute to six and he’s not got any more time. Sorting through his thoughts doesn’t happen, though; he just ends up thinking about Mycroft and how aesthetically pleasing he is, for the whole run. When he gets home he’s frustrated, and it’s odd, because normally Sherlock is the only one to get him this worked up. But then again, Mycroft _is_ a Holmes.

He wonders how their parents coped.

And then he wonders what having parents is like.

The power is back on when he arrives home, and so he turns on the kettle and sits on the sofa, staring aimlessly at the blank television screen before him. Hours pass and he does nothing other than ring in and say he’s ill, so he doesn’t have to go in and deal with whatever the day has in store for the Yard.

He’s not ill, obviously. Robots, androids - whatever you wanted to call what he was - didn’t get ill. But he was artificially intelligent enough to decide that that was the best course of action for the day. He needed to get his thoughts in check. Because he was _acting_ ill. Staring, causing power cuts, zoning out; all things that he hadn’t done since his first few weeks of being created; when he was still overly curious about everything; was still mostly and obviously metal. Back when he didn’t have hair, or a name, or skin, and knew nothing but the voice and commands of his creator.

He wonders why he doesn’t remember that much about the one that created him. Maybe they removed his memories of them; they certainly had the ability to. They made him, after all. He finds it odd that he’s acting ‘young’ again, and that he’s wondering about his creator. He hasn’t thought about them since before Sherlock had burst into his life (and crime scene); when he discovered what it was like to have someone in your life that wasn’t exactly _normal_.

For a while Sherlock made him feel human, what with the lack of eating, social graces, and sleep. He wonders for a moment if Mycroft shares the same traits, and then the rest day is spent sat on the sofa, ignoring his phone, ignoring the post; ignoring everything that is not the thoughts in his head; the Holmes’ and the one humans would call his God.

He sits and stares; might as well be turned off, if he weren’t thinking so hard. He doesn’t actually think he’s _ever_ thought this hard before, and he finds himself - for the first time in a long time - ridiculously curious about his mechanics. He’s looked at himself in the mirror before, and he has hazy memories of gazing through the translucent material of his torso while his creator grafted on his skin. But it has been years since he has actively wanted to peel it back and move and _watch_. After all, doing so only reminded him of how not human he is.

He closes his eyes and does not open them again until night fall, when he can rest, recharge, and tell himself to stop thinking so hard. He is who he is, and he has no issue with that. He does, however, have an issue with the fact that Mycroft Holmes is distracting him, and whilst he is designed to appreciate aesthetically pleasing things and he enjoys looking at the elder Holmes, he doesn’t want to have the risk of failing to act human.

One of the few things he vividly remembers his creator saying is that the world was a dangerous place - he knew that himself because of his job - and people did not react well to differences. Looking into human history just proved that, and he has spent every hour of every day since discovering that trying to be human.

When he wakes it is with the strict instruction to himself that he must _be_ human. He must not let Mycroft Holmes distract him in any way that might be potentially dangerous. He must not let himself think about Mycroft Holmes unless absolutely necessary.

He actually drinks his coffee that morning, in plain view of everyone, instead of taking it to his office and dumping it. He drinks it, allows himself to revel in the taste as he smiles and nods and greets people and assures them that he’s fine now and it was just one of those twenty four hour bugs. He enjoys being able to eat and drink. Not that he ever does it for pleasure, but it would have been a lot harder to convince people he was human if he didn’t ever eat or drink anything. Luckily for him, his creator wanted him to be as human as possible for an AI, and so made it possible for him to ingest food substances. Ingest them, store them in his torso and excrete it via the hole on his stomach. His belly button is not just for show; not just there to prove that he had been ‘born’. It is actually useful to him. He's glad.

The next week or so passes for him and the Yard without too much trouble, and he only thinks about Mycroft Holmes half a dozen times, only causes one power cut, and only has to consult Sherlock twice. All in all, he’s happy, when it comes to Friday night, that it is his day off tomorrow, and so he can spent hours in his flat with the curtains drawn, his skin pulled back and his mechanics there for him to gaze and marvel at.

He takes the tube home; giving himself time to recall how to do what it was that he was going to do when he got home. He remembered everything, but he needed to be _sure._ Upon reaching his flat he immediately locks the door and draws all the curtains; taking a moment to revel in the darkness.

Only when he is de-clothed and stood in his bedroom does he begin to peel back the artificial skin of his torso; carefully laying it out on his bed to keep safe while he looks down and through himself. He moves; tilts; shifts; bends; anything to make the mechanics within him move and react. Aesthetic. One of the first things that was truly pleasing to him, he remembers, is the sight of _him_ ; who and what he was.

He continues to slowly remove skin, and soon enough only his head, hands and feet are the only things not obviously man-made. He moves slowly and deliberately, eyes unblinking as he looks through and at himself; lips quirked in a soft, pleased smile. Hours slowly pass by, but he gives no thought to the time; he is highly charged and he wants a break and a chance to reminisce.

It is only when he pads out into his bathroom to get his mirror that he decides he wants to see his mind. His brain. His central processing unit. For a long while he stands there before the mirror; gazing at the junction where ‘skin’ and metallic material meet; once again engrossed in his own excellence. Raising a hand, he takes hold of his right earlobe and peels it away from the skeletal structure of his head.

Greg knows something is wrong the moment the skin comes off in his hand. He freezes, not breathing, and _listens_. Every piece of mechanical or electrical equipment emits a faint noise, and Greg can hear them, provided his ‘human’ ears are not in the way. He knows every sound his flat should make, and right now there are multiple sounds that are _not_ normal.

Panic flits through his form and he rushes back into the bedroom, putting his ear back in place and returning the rest of his skin back to his body. Only when he is dressed does he begin breathing again, and peel away his ear once more. He needs to know what the sound is coming from, and so he must find it.

There are many sources of the sound, he finds as he looks, and so it takes him hours before he is able to home in on just one. When he finds it he feels like the power has been sucked out of him.

It’s a camera. They’re _all_ cameras.

Someone has been watching him.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade has a secret. Mycroft  _knows_ he has a secret, he just doesn’t know what it is yet. Frankly, he’s surprised that Sherlock hasn’t realised something’s not right; his brother takes pride in being able to read people, and yet it’s obvious that he’s not noticed anything strange about the man he consults for.

Were it any other person, Mycroft’s not sure he’d take that much interest; he’d simply fob the task off on one of his underlings and get them to report back when they found something. But this man was in direct contact with his brother frequently, and Mycroft would not let anything happen to Sherlock.

He quickly finds that there’s nothing in Lestrade’s past that eludes to anything remotely suspicious; his medical records are clean, his family history isn’t very well detailed but is adequate. He’s never been in debt, never failed an exam in school, and only been off work three or four times in all the years he’s worked with the Yard. All in all, he’s practically perfect. And of course, that makes Mycrofts’ curiousity increase tenfold.

It’s not long before he’s arranged for a surveillance system to be set up in Lestrade’s tiny flat and the Detective Inspector’s every move in private is being recorded. The files are sent to him every night, after Anthea’s watched them through the day, and anything strange has been noted. Mycroft doesn’t bother to watch anything that hasn’t been commented on, in order to save time, but from the first day of watching he wishes there was more time in the day.

Gregory was a strange man, with odd habits.

One of the things Anthea had commented on was what Gregory did upon entering his home; the kettle and television are put on, and then Gregory hardly does anything. He just sits. He doesn’t eat, or drink, or wash. For the first day Mycroft assumes he’s eaten out, but on the third day of this aimless routine his suspicions spike, and a quick search into his bank shows that Gregory spends very little on food.

Soon enough it’s the second Friday of Lestrade being watched, and Mycroft, having nothing to do, decides to watch the live-feed. He’s never seen something so extraordinary.

The DI doesn’t bother turning on the lights when he enters, and his rush to close the curtains and lock the doors immediately makes Mycroft curious. The night-vision of the cameras initiates, and he settles back in his chair, silently watching the green image of the man undressing. 

At first Mycroft thinks he’ll turn off the image; leave Lestrade to touching himself and not have to be subject to being watched live, whether he knew it or not. He’s reaching for the appropriate button when he realises what he’s watching; the man is not masturbating. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is _peeling away his skin_.

He stays frozen, watching as the man who associates with his brother so much literally _skins_ himself. Though apparently painlessly; the man - if that even what he is - doesn’t flinch; it’s like he’s done this millions of times before. Mycroft’s gaze flicks to another camera for a different angle, and he literally slumps back into his seat when he sees through Lestrade.

_Through him_.

The man on the screen is soon no more than a human head on what looks to be a metallic skeletal system, and Mycroft can’t believe it. If he hadn’t known that this was live he would have been tempted to accuse Anthea of letting the footage be tampered with. But it _is_ live. Mycroft Holmes is watching Gregory Lestrade - a robot? android? he’d be tempted to think ‘alien’, if he believed in that sort of thing - practically dismantle himself.

He hardly feels like he breaths as he continues watching. He doesn’t move; too transfixed by the green-tinged video to even think of doing anything _but_ watch. He switches camera when the thing that is Lestrade walks into the bathroom, and he mentally applauds himself for choosing to put a camera just in the right place that he can see Lestrade’s still human face perfectly.

Curiousity pulls him forward in his seat; makes him lean towards the screen in order to see him better. He was so life like; Mycroft is astonished that no one, not even Sherlock, had realised that he’s not real.

Not _real_.

He’s stuck on that thought, staring at Lestrade, when suddenly the man in question freezes and rushes from the room. The camera follows him and Mycroft watches earnestly; curious as to the sudden change in the DI’s attitude. It’s only when Lestrade finds a camera and pulls it into his hand, staring into it, that Mycroft finally stands up and stalks away from the screen.

He needs time to think; to try to understand; to figure out how Lestrade found his cameras and what Lestrade is. When he returns to the screen after lots of research every camera has been disconnected. For the first time ever his surveillance has been discovered. And for the first time ever he’s seen something that is not human.

He slumps back into his seat and stares at the now blank screens.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-_

Greg’s too wound up to stop his foot from tapping relentlessly on the floor. It’s been almost seven hours since he discovered the cameras, and almost every minute since has been spent pacing the flat; the cameras smashed and wrecked on the floor, slowly crumbling further and further.

Right now he’s stood staring at the front door, his foot tap-tap-tapping on the floor as he desperately tries not to panic any more than he already is. Were he human he’s sure that he would have had multiple panic attacks by now, and more than likely eaten his body-weight in food. But he’s not. He's not human, and someone knows. In all the years he’s been in the real world, he’s never been discovered for he he was. He’s no idea what to do now, knowing that he stripped himself of his skin and showed who he was in front of multiple cameras.

_Shit_.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he realises that crushing the cameras, though it had been a spur of the moment decision, may not have been a good thing to have done; he may have been able to find out where the cameras came from if they were still working, but he definitely wont be able to now that they’re slowly being ground to dust.

He paces and stares and taps until he realises that pacing isn’t doing the trick and he needs to run. He doesn’t change into more appropriate clothing; instead just leaving the house there and then, stopping only to slip some shoes on, and even then that decision isn’t a fully conscious one.

The run lasts hours, and he hardly pays attention to where he’s going, nor the fact that his slacks and shirt are really not that good for running in. All he can think about is the fact that he’s been seen; he’s been seen, and discovered, and there’s almost definitely copies of the footage somewhere, being watched by someone. Someone who broke into his flat, planted cameras, and has been watching him for who knows how long.

He stops himself from breathing as he runs, because he honestly fears that he will get caught up in breathing and end up over-working himself; tripping his own system and collapsing in the middle of the street. It’s never happened before, but if he can cause power cuts, who’s to say he can’t accidentally turn himself off?

It’s the early hours of the next morning when Greg finally returns home, and there is nothing he wants to do other than sleep and recharge. He feels wiped out; ready to collapse, and he knows he’s certainly not going to get through tomorrow if he doesn’t charge. He finds the run has helped somewhat, because he hardly thinks at all as he walks through the flat, stripping off as he goes, and falls on the bed like a lead balloon.

When he wakes to the frankly annoying sound of his mobile phone in the next room he thinks that, despite the fact that it’s twelve minutes to noon, he definitely could have slept longer. It’s Sally on the phone, and she tells him that she’s sorry, she knows it’s his day off, but they’ve got a weird one. At first he sighs because yes, it is his day off, and he could have spent it doing something recreational, but then he smiles and tells Sally that he’ll be there in an hour.

He’s not smiling because someone’s been killed, of course he’s not; Greg isn’t human, but he still cares about them. Hence his job; he wants to help people. He’s smiling because this will give him something to focus on that will hopefully keep him from panicking.

As promised, he is at the scene of the crime within an hour, and as usual hoping has done nothing for him. The case is a weird one, as Sally had said, and so he’s now stood waiting for a certain Consulting Detective to stop staring at the corse and his phone and tell him what the hell they were looking at.

Nothing about this is making him panic less than he was the day before. In fact, if anything, he’s panicking more. The need to consult Sherlock has brought back thoughts of his brother and his aesthetic, and for a while he’s distracted by that; the thought that he’s not been acting normal lately because of his thoughts about Mycroft. And then Sherlock says that the dead woman before them is a computer programmer, and obviously an excellent one, and everything that happened yesterday comes crashing back down on him.

He stops listening before he can even draw in another breath. He doesn’t even realise he’s frozen and not breathing until John is in front of him, frowning at him and asking what’s wrong, very near to shaking him to get him to respond. Jolting, he stares at the doctor before him, before breathing again and looking from him, to Sherlock, and to the woman on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” All at once it’s all too much and he’s shaking his head, backing away from them, holding a hand to his forehead, “I- I’ve got to go.”

He can’t bare to look at the faces staring at him, and after telling Sally that she’s in charge he’s running. Nowhere, anywhere. He doesn’t listen to any of the voices shouting his name, or the phone in his pocket as it almost immediately begins to ring. Sally, probably; wanting to know why the hell he’s left her alone with Sherlock. ‘The Freak’, she’ll say.

Within four minutes the phone is cracked on the floor and practically forgotten about, and Greg doesn’t give a damn about the fact that it’s got all his contacts in it and he’ll need it at some point in the future; all that matters to him is running and not thinking. He just wants to not _think_.

For the first time ever he wishes his creator was there so they could keep him safe and remove his memories of yesterday; thinking about it is just too panic inducing. Greg knows he needs to breathe; slow down; act human, now more than ever, but he just can’t, no matter how much he wants to. It’s at this moment as he sprints through the streets of London that he wishes he could feel pain, instead of just pressure. If he were human his chest would be heaving from the excessive exercise, his legs would be aching to the point of almost buckling underneath him, and he would be sweating himself into passing out; all things that would make him feel human.

He’s never run so recklessly before; not sparing a thought towards his speed or surroundings. He’s so caught up in literally trying to run away from his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the car until it’s already hit him and he’s sprawled out on the pavement. It all happens so fast; the horn; the screeching brakes; the thump of him hitting the bonnet of the car. It takes him a minute to realise that that’s actually just happened.

He’s fine. He can’t feel pain, and his skin is pretty thick - quite literally - so when he sits up slowly, he knows he’s mostly okay; it’s only a slight discomfort in the arm that the car first hit that makes him think something’s wrong. A look reveals nothing, and he realises he’s going to have to pull away his skin in order to figure out what’s wrong. But right now, there’s the issue of the person or persons in the car that has just hit him.

Pulling in a breath that feels like it should be calming, he pushes himself to his feet and slowly walks around to the front of the car; it had hit him so fast he’d gone right over the top of it. He finds himself stood in front of a now slightly dented Mercedes, staring into the eyes of one only slightly shocked Mycroft Holmes.

Greg has seen enough people and been on enough crime scenes to know that Mycroft’s reaction to him not being sprawled out and bleeding on the pavement - or bleeding at all - is not normal. He looks more shocked at the fact that he’s hit someone than the fact that Greg is okay. The staring continues and something in his mind suddenly clicks.

“It was _you_.” The words leave his lips in nothing more than a rushed realisation, and he drags a hand through his hair. It’s obvious now; he started acting weird in front of Mycroft. Mycroft, who occupies ‘a minor position in the British Government’, and has kidnapped John before. Mycroft, who is a Holmes. Greg breathes out another ‘ _you_ ’, and for a moment he considers running again; running from the ginger-haired man who is staring at him so openly and who must know what he is.

Closing his eyes, Greg allows himself a moment to control his thoughts and decide upon the best course of action. Within a few moments he finds himself walking towards the passenger side of the car, opening the door, and getting in.

He doesn’t breath when he’s in the car, because he doesn’t want to. He wants to listen to the breathing of Mycroft; listen to him and try to figure out what he’s thinking.

The silence stretches for far longer than Greg expects, and he honestly doesn’t expect Mycroft to be the one to break it, but the man clears his throat, draws in a breath, and slowly turns to look at him.

“Are you okay?”

Of all the things he expects him to say, it’s certainly not that. Greg turns to look at him, blinking, and slowly nods. He’s fine, he says; apart from his arm feeling a little funny.

“I hit you with my car.” Greg has never once imagined a Holmes - Sherlock _or_ Mycroft - sounding as the ginger-man does now; his voice is quiet, and just a little wobbly. He can tell that Mycroft’s not astonished, but he definitely sounds shaken.

With a slow breath he nods, looking towards the dashboard of the car. “Yeah.” After that comes the stretching silence once more, broken only by Mycroft shifting the car into gear and starting to drive again, ten minutes later. Greg doesn’t know where they’re going, but luckily, from the look on his face, Mycroft doesn’t know either. He’s not sure if the silence is awkward or not, but it’s definitely tense; tense enough for Greg to not even want to think about the fact that he’s in a car with the only human in the world who knows what he is, and has hit him with a car.

Eventually the car begins to run low on petrol. they’ve been driving for hours, he thinks; aimlessly and pointlessly. He runs to clear his head, and he thinks Mycroft must drive to clear his. It’s only when the gage shows red that he speaks; telling Mycroft that he thinks they need to talk. The man agrees with a stiff nod and soon enough they’re pulling into the driveway of what Greg assumes is Mycroft’s home.

Getting out without waiting for Mycroft to talk, Greg walks towards the house, gazing up at it as if he’s interested in its design; he’s not, he just needs a moment to think before they walk through the front door and his life - his existence - changes for ever. 

Mycroft silently leads him into a sitting room, gestures for him to sit, and settles down in the chair opposite him. Again comes the staring; both of them clearly thinking about the same thing, though Greg’s thoughts laced with appreciations of Mycroft’s aesthetic. Every thought about the man, no matter how terrifying (‘He knows what I am. He planted the cameras. He hit me with his car.’), seems to have been tainted by just how aesthetically pleasing Greg automatically finds Mycroft.

“Tea.”

Mycroft seems to have found his voice again and Greg very nearly starts; blinking suddenly and frowning just a tad.

“I’m sorry?”

Mycroft stands, nods once, and makes his way out of the room. “I’ll make tea.”

Greg doesn’t have a chance to say he doesn’t want tea before the other is gone from sight. For a moment he panics, before he quickly manages to stifle any terrifying thought of Mycroft selling him out. He doesn’t want to think about being experimented on. He could not feel physical pain, but he could _feel_.

Minutes pass and he sits there silently, not breathing, or blinking, or doing anything. Once again, he might as well be off. Except he can’t, because he needs to talk with Mycroft; needs to know what he knows, and try to figure out what to do. He’s met the man thrice - not including now, being sat in his home - and yet he knows more about Greg than anyone else.

Greg is sure that if he were human he would be having a panic attack.

Only when Mycroft returns with two cups of tea in hand does Greg begin to relax; calm his mind of the images of wires and machines and experiments. He takes the cup with a quiet ‘thank you’, and holds it in his hands, doing nothing but staring at Mycroft once more. Mycroft is saying nothing; doing nothing but sipping his drink, and so Greg takes time to fully appreciate the human before him in a way that he has not been able to before now.

In the limo, on the day they had met, Greg was trying to focus at least partially on the conversation, and so hadn’t been able to properly analyse what he was seeing. But now there is silence, apart from the soft clink of teacup against saucer, and Greg does nothing but stare, and analyse, and _like_.

An hour quickly passes, and Greg has not blinked once. Mycroft has been through three cups of tea, and Greg’s still sits, untouched, cradled in his hands. He counts the soft freckles on the Holmes’ face eleven times before deciding the time for silence is over.

“Fifteen cameras, six microphones,” Mycroft makes no real reaction to those words, apart from a quirked brow, and so Greg continues. “I’d offer to pay you back, but you hit me with your car.”

A thoughtful hum leaves Mycroft’s lips, and he simply lowers his cup to look at Greg more. Another moment of silence passes, before Greg closes his eyes and raises a hand to his face; half covering it as he sighs. Slowly he begins to breathe again, though not because he’s relaxing.

“How long-?” He begins to ask, simply to break the silence again - it’s suddenly almost always there; feeling like a weight on his shoulders - but Mycroft cuts in before he can continue.

“Eleven days. Only my assistant and I watched the footage. She hasn’t seen anything from the last day. I don’t care about the cameras; they can easily be replaced.” Mycroft continues talking, and Greg is hooked on every word; his head snapping up at his eyes boring into the blue-grey ones before him.

“You are... You’re not human.” Mycroft says after what Greg thinks to be a lot of words spoken for speaking’s sake. The DI watches his every move; every twitch, every blink, and slowly shakes his head.

“Alan Mathison Turing wrote a paper in nineteen fifty called _Computing Machinery and Intelligence._ ”

Greg nods; he knows all about the man that was A. M. Turing; his creator had always mentioned him, and he’s done some research into what were essentially his origins. He doesn’t want to hear Mycroft talk about Alan Turing, though, and so he finds himself taking over what Mycroft is saying.

“He wondered if machines could think,” The ‘k’ of the word comes off particularly harsh, and Greg has no real idea why. “He wondered what the definition of ‘machine’ was, and what the definition of ‘think’ was. He proposed a game; a test; a way to figure out the answer to his question.”

The arm that the car hit first twinges as he shifts it, and he wonders what he will have to do to stop that from happening. It’s not painful; it’s just uncomfortable. For the first time in a long time Greg feels uncomfortable, both physically and otherwise; Mycroft is staring at him like he’s the only person in the world.

“Explain it to me?” Greg knows that Mycroft must have read the paper and must know of the test, but he nods and explains. What better way to learn about the Turing Test than getting a potential subject of the game to explain it?

“The Turing Test generally has three participants; two humans and a machine. One of the humans asks questions to the other and the machine, and both answer; both trying to prove they have intelligence that is there own. Trying to prove that they’re human. If the asker thinks the machine is human, then the test has been passed.”

A slow sigh leaves Greg’s lips and he looks at Mycroft, expression utterly, utterly neutral; he doesn’t think he can afford to show emotion right now.

“You know what I am, Mycroft,” It’s the first time that he’s said the name actually _to_ it’s owner, and he can tell by the slight widening of Mycroft’s eyes that he hadn’t expected his name to be used. "You’ve watch me, and if your assistant really hasn’t seen the footage, then- then you’re the only person who knows." He falls silent for a moment, before looking away from Mycroft, finally.

"So what do you think?" Greg asks quietly, staring into the cold cup of tea in his hands that he’s definitely not going to drink now. "Have I passed the test? Now that you know what I am, have I passed?"

When Mycroft doesn’t respond, Greg grits his teeth and looks up at him again. “Or do you want to make it more interesting?” He can’t help the biting tone that laces his words as he looks into the blank face before him. “Maybe I passed before, but maybe now that you know what I am you’ll want to continue the game; keep it going.

"Am I really upset when I seem it? Can I be happy? Is the anger and frustration that I show real? Can I really feel emotion or am I just simulating it? You want to know if I’m just imitating, or if I really am feeling, don’t you?”

Mycroft says nothing and the silence is becoming deafening. Greg stares at him, slowly getting angrier and angrier at the lack of response he gets. Suddenly he can’t take the silence anymore and he shoves himself to his feet, downing his cold tea before practically slamming the cup down on the table beside him.

“I need the loo. Where is it?”

That finally startles Mycroft into answering, and Greg takes some sort of strange pleasure in the fact that he stutters for a moment before answering.

“You- You need the-?” The confusion is obvious in his voice, but before he can finish the question the man clears his throat and nods once, before pointing towards the door out of the room. Greg is walking out of the room so fast he only just hears where the toilet actually is.

Mycroft is still simply sat in his chair when Greg returns from the toilet. He hadn’t really needed to go, but he’d needed a little space to clear his head. The elder Holmes’ gaze flits to him as he enters the room once more and Greg holds back a sigh, simply walking over to his seat and slumping into it; all graces gone. Whats the point anymore?

He looks at Mycroft and once again he finds himself enraptured by the simple yet pleasing features he’s faced with. The damn features that got him into this mess in the first place.

_It’s your fault_ , he thinks, and it’s not until he sees the confusion flicker across Mycroft’s face that he realises he’s said that out loud.

“I... I’m sorry-?” Mycroft says after a moment in which Greg assumed he’s trying to figure out what he means. “What, exactly, is my fault?”

Greg pinches the bridge of his nose, and the annoyed hiss of breath that leaves his lips is more aimed at himself, rather than Mycroft.

“Sorry.” He finds himself grumbling, glaring down at the carpet. “Thinking aloud.” He falls silent and stays as such for a few moments, before suddenly slamming his now fisted hand down on the arm of the chair and shooting to his feet. Mycroft flinches and stills, and Greg has to turn away from him and start pacing just to stop himself from yelling in that smarmily gorgeous face.

The silence is perfect; the only noise being his thumping footsteps and Mycroft’s breathing. It takes him thirty one steps before he forces himself to start breathing again; it wouldn’t do well to get out of the habit. The silence is still perfect and a creator-send, but he can’t help but want to break it; knowing that Mycroft is just sat there watching him pace is like using a computer with a persistent lag; annoying; grating.

Theres the rustle of fabric - Mycroft shifting his stance - and suddenly Gregory can’t keep it in anymore.

“No. You know what-? No. I’m not sorry. I’m _not_ sorry.” He’s still pacing, but as he turns on his heel he looks at Mycroft; eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring indignantly. “This is your fault, Mycroft Holmes! Your fucking fault!”

The man in question is doing well to not look shocked or react in any way, really, to the obvious display of emotion, and it just makes Greg angrier. How dare he look so calm when Greg is feeling like this? His fists clench at his sides, his whole form tensing as he continues to pace. It’s pace, or run. And he needs to talk, so the latter is out of the question.

“If you hadn’t shown up on _my_ crime scene this wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t be stood here, fearing for my existence and close to tears for the first time since I left home! Goddamn you Mycroft!” He has to stop walking; he has to stop and close his eyes and _breathe_. Fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms makes him feel a little more human, but he wishes he felt the pain instead of just pressure.

“I...” Mycroft’s inhalation of breath is infuriating, because it’s _real_. Needed. “I don’t understand.”

Greg cant hold back the scoff of laughter at those words and he looked at the man, not sure if he wants to run or collapse.

“How strange that must be for you,” Mycroft’s confusion spurs him on, “A Holmes feeling _confused_. Out of the loop. Scared, even? You flinched when I stood up, because you don’t know what I can do; you don’t know if someone is controlling me.” He can feel liquid prickling at the corners of his eyes as he reacts to the situation, and that in itself makes him want to cry more. He swipes a hand across his eyes and turns away from Mycroft, not wanting him to see the tears.

For something who insisted he was human ,he really didn’t want to do something as human as _cry_.

He’s so caught up in trying to pull himself together that he doesn’t realise Mycroft has moved until there’s an immaculate silk handkerchief being held out to him. He doesn’t notice his hands are shaking until he lifts one to take the square of fabric away from those brilliantly crafted hands. A soft sob bubbles up before he can stop it, and he’s never felt so helpless before; so drained.

“Is there anything I can do to help you, Gregory?” The words are soft and wary, but Greg hears the sincerity behind them. There’s a pause between Greg’s murmur of ‘socket’ and Mycroft’s response, but soon enough he’s being pointed towards the nearest wall socket.

Greg hates charging while awake, but he feels like charging right now might be the only way to stop himself from feeling like he’s about to fall apart.

How had meeting one man done this to him? How had the first Holmes done nothing but irk him, and the second very quickly lead to him become a sobbing mess that wants his creator?

Pulling away from Mycroft, Greg pads over to the wall and slumps beside the socket, one hand pressing over the holes of it. His eyelids flicker, and so do the lights of the room, and almost immediately he feels himself relaxing with the flow of electricity; the tears starting to lessen.

 


End file.
